


Penny Anderson's Day of Doom

by Stiltzkin



Category: Fantastic Four, Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Inspired By Tumblr, Make-A-Wish Foundation, Villain Wrangler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 07:38:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12428025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stiltzkin/pseuds/Stiltzkin
Summary: Young Penny Anderson has one wish before she dies: to meet the diabolical despot of Latveria, Doctor Doom. Inspired by the infamous "Villain Wrangler" thread.





	Penny Anderson's Day of Doom

#  Penny Anderson's Day of **DOOM**

At long last the day had come. The grandest of days. After months of careful planning the ritual would once more be complete. Triumph would again be at hand. There would be no error. No miscalculation. There never was. All was as He had designed. All was as He had willed it. He rose from his morning meditation with his body rejuvenated, mind focused, and the iron will that had fueled him as food and slumber fueled the weaker members of the human species burned bright. It was time the day began in earnest, for the world did not truly wake until Doctor Victor von Doom had opened its eyes, nor would it rest until He had allowed it.

The monarch strode through the hallowed halls of Castle Doom with intent. Following its destruction at Doom's own hands in order to quell a minor rebellion, the 16th century structure was rebuilt largely in accordance with the original architecture, but for slight improvements of Doom's own devising: Laser grids, poison gas emitters, the nuclear reactor that powered all of his security and laboratory facilities. Most importantly, the hall in which he strode at least once a day was crafted with such mathematical precision that the acoustics carried the sound of his purposeful stride across the castle and throughout the Latverian capitol of Doomstadt of which it overlooked so that all of his loyal subjects would be reminded that Doom was watching over them.

Doom situated himself at his throne and called up a holographic control display with a thought. Beneath his green cowl and fearsome metal mask, the mastermind smiled with satisfaction as if he had already won, which indeed he had, for Doom had never failed to achieve his ambitions. Never mind those dealings with that infernal Squirrel Girl. She would one day face her reckoning. Today however, Doom had other plans. Plans which were promptly put on hold as a message indicating an incoming transmission from an encrypted frequency appeared before him just as he was relishing the quiet moment before the relish that came from his moment of triumph.

Doom's self-satisfied smirk became a dissatisfied sneer. Doom had known precisely whom had dared to contact him as the encryption was decrypted as quickly as it had been received. He could use the connection to destabilize the entire network of whatever facility the fool had contacted him from, or else simply cause a deafening amount of feedback to emit from their audio system like that time he gave The Leader the migraine of his life for suggesting that Doom join the team of no-talent hacks he was attempting to put together in an effort to steal the Library of Alexandria. He'd been going on about this “Intelligencia” idea of his for years, and someone needed to put him in his place. Steal the Library of Alexandria indeed. Where would they put it? Doom would sooner join a think-tank of children than of apes and mad-men. This fool on the other-hand, whom had presumed to take up Doom's precious time on so auspicious a day, was another brand of fool entirely.

“I have little time for your petty ambitions, Zemo,” Doom said to the purple-hooded figure on the other end of the video feed.

“Apologies for hacking into your secure network, Heir Doctor,” said Baron Helmut Zemo, occasional head of Hydra, occasional head of the Masters of Evil, one time head of the Thunderbolts, and all-time thorn in the sides of Captain America and his ilk.

“Bah,” Doom scoffed. “No one 'hacks' Doom. You were only able to establish contact because Doom allowed it. Speak quickly, else be destroyed.”

“Of course,” said Zemo, who nodded respectfully. Zemo had always been better at playing with others than Doom, though they both possessed a powerful penchant for playing others. He was not to be trusted, but the would-be conqueror was a big name in their field and had the potential to be worth hearing out. Doom would be able to perceive any threat Zemo presented from a mile away. Regardless, he kept his digital firewall and literal wall-of-fire-based fail-safes at the ready.

“One of my contacts from my Thunderbolts days asked that I relay a message to you,” Zemo explained. “Perhaps they hadn't the means to reach you on their own, or else their fear of any repercussions their intrusions may invoke outweighed their capacity for courage. Regardless, I am here.”

“To the point, Zemo. My patience wears thin.”

“There is a girl in the United States,” Zemo explained without further preamble. “Dayton, Ohio. I am told she wishes to meet with you.”

“Who is this 'girl', as you say, that she would dare request an audience with Doom?”

“I am sure you will enjoy this,” said Zemo, the contours of his sly grin visible even under his hood. “Her name is Penny Anderson. She was, how shall I say... rescued from a fire nine days ago and her prognosis is bleak. Burns disfigure her entire body. Her left leg has been amputated. It is believed that smoke and toxins have damaged her lungs beyond recovery. She will die in a matter of days.”

“What of it?” said Doctor Doom in an off-hand manner. He reclined to one side of his throne and propped his regal head on his fist. “If it is a miraculous recovery she desires she would do better to request the aid of the so-called Sorcerer Supreme than expect the cooperation of one-such as Doom.”

“It is not her body she wishes to have healed,” said Zemo, “but her spirit.”

“My point still stands,” Doom said. “That feeble magician's parlor tricks may not be up to Doom's standards, but Doom has more important matters to attend to than the plights of insignificant whelps.”

“Very well,” said Zemo humbly. “If that is your decision. All the girl wanted was to meet someone powerful whom had overcome adversity and made something impressive of themselves. Someone from whom she could draw inspiration in her time of need. Alas, it is not to be.”

“And what of you, Zemo?” demanded Doom. “Why does the enemy of free will care so much about a dying child, one of such little consequence as an Ohioan no less, that he would sacrifice his own precious time to waste that of Doom's?”

“Did you not know, Doctor?” asked Zemo. “I adore children. The kinder are our future. For one, even one not long for the next world, to understand and appreciate who we are and where we come from... is that not something to be rewarded?”

“Fah!” said Doom as he reached up to the display. “To live and die in service to Doom is its own reward. The act of simply failing to live is far from commendable, and certainly not worth the attention of Doom. Good day to you, Baron.”

Doom flicked off the display and leaned forward in his throne as he laced his fingertips together. The nerve. The impudence. Were one meager child's petty injuries really enough to move conquerors, tyrants, and dictator's to action? Doom would think not. Doom had reign over a kingdom of perfectly healthy subjects that would sacrifice anything and all for his slightest whim. Yet this child! This child had the arrogance to request an audience with none other than Doctor Doom, King of Latveria and future ruler of all mankind, as if lacking the willpower to overcome death somehow made one worthy of such an honor?

Doom traced the source of Baron Zemo's call to its precise coordinates and sent a stealth drone to deliver a heavy payload to that location. If only death were a permanent solution to such tedious pranksters. Maybe then he would stop waking up to find that Deadpool had covered his castle with toilet paper in the dead of night.

Doom recalled the holographic projection of his control console and returned his mind to his grand scheme. There was business to attend to after all. Yes. Today was the day. They wouldn't even see it coming. They never did.

That blasted girl. Who did she think she was?

With one press of a button, he would prove his superiority once and for all. Not to himself, but to the world that denied Doom his rightful place as undisputed lord of all.

Dayton, Ohio. Really.

Blast. He had seen the cosmos, other dimensions, conquered time and space. He had wielded the power of gods, wrenched his mother's soul free from the grips of eternal damnation. He had accomplished more than the combined collaborative efforts of most intergalactic civilizations had in the span of generations, and he had done it all after casting aside the very notions of pain and suffering; yet he could not shake that blasted girl from his mind.

“Doombot D7-4196,” Doom called to his nearest robotic servant. He had recently programmed his identical automatons to feel honored when His Magnificence was able to correctly identify them by serial number. True, the only emotion they had been bestowed with previously was the satisfaction of serving their master, but it had been a slow week overall and he had nothing better to do than to test out the new operating system he had casually designed in the back of his mind while running diagnostics on his clean fusion reactor. Doombot D7-4196 quivered at the knees at the mention of his alpha-numeric numeric designation. It couldn't wait to tell D66-9978.

“Assemble a team. I am sending you coordinates to a children's hospital in Dayton, Ohio. Go there and bring me the girl called Penny Anderson. Do whatever is necessary to ensure that she arrives unharmed and in stable condition. Go. Now! Do as your master commands.”

“The word of Doom is law,” quoted the Doombot. It bowed to its master before heading to the hanger.

***

Penny's Grandpa had been a fireman. He had told his granddaughter once when he had shingles that the pain from that scaly rash was worse than all of the burns he had ever sustained in the line of duty combined. Penny had never had shingles. She was only twelve, and shingles was kind of an old person thing as far as she knew. She strongly doubted that it was worse than what she was going through.

It wasn't altogether different from that time when she was nine that she tried making fish-sticks by herself. The hot pan had only left a small pink mark on her thumb, but her entire body ached from the focused intensity of the pain, and her heart screamed as it filled her with adrenaline. As Penny lie in bed she could distinguish the actual burning sensation across her body from her recent accident if she concentrated hard enough, but for the most part everything just muddled together into an excessive but uniform and nondescript hurt that the medication being pumped into her every couple of hours would only dilute. It was almost like the medicine didn't so much take the pain away as make her care about it less. At least now that scar under her thumb where her hand had come into contact with the oven-fresh pan three years would be gone, as would the scab she'd been picking at repeatedly for the last week, that stubborn tangle of hair that somehow crept its way into her hair every night as she slept, the big lightning-bolt shaped mark on her knee from falling off her bike at age six too, and the whole leg with it. What skin was left that Penny could see beneath the splints on her arms reminded her of those little wrinkled cocktail weenies Mom and Dad had put on platters for her Elementary School Graduation party. They were those kind of parents. Every good report card was celebrated with ice cream. Every bad grade was viewed as an opportunity for improvement, with an emphasis placed on “opportunity.” Every bump and scrape was a trophy. Every failure a work in progress. Every obstacle was a hurdle begging to be jumped. They had taught her that Penny could do anything. Now here she was: numb, scarred, broken. She wondered just how much of “Penny” was actually left.

“There's my beautiful baby girl,” her mother had said without irony the first time Penny opened her eyes in the hospital, three full days after the accident.

“Hey, Slugger, how ya feelin'?” said her father.

Their words were no different from the ones they used to welcome her home from school, like they were trying to convince her that everything was alright, that they were going to get through this like any other day. The tears in their eyes, the grief as they clung to each other for support, the way everything from pain killers to food and water, even oxygen, had to be pumped in and out of her through tubes, broke the illusion pretty fast.

They, her parents, the doctors, had tried explaining what all was going on, but while the details didn't make a whole lot of sense, Penny was able to get the big picture from the manner in which they had given her the details. The fact was she was dying, and there wasn't enough hope to go around to convince anyone of the contrary. If they really wanted to give Penny hope, it would have to come from a very unexpected source.

“You want to what?” her father asked.

She explained again as clearly as she could. Her facial muscles were stiff and the nasogastric tube kind of made her gag. Her mother and father looked at each other. It was clear that they understood her words. Where the communication broke down was in trying to decipher her intentions.

“Honey... are you sure?”

Penny didn't respond. Too much effort for too small a reward.

“I hear Captain America makes these kind of...” Her father hesitated, suppressing the urge to get choked up. “I mean... he visits kiddos all the time. What about him?”

“Or Ms. Marvel?” her mother added helpfully. “I'm sure she'd be game.”

“Or Thor? Honey, wouldn't you want to meet Thor?”

Penny stood firm, so to speak. Two days had passed before anyone had taken her request seriously, but as her condition worsened her parents took the steps to see to it that her daughter's dying wish was met. It took some doing. Her Uncle Duke in Broxton, Oklahoma knew a retired trucker who was penpals with an Asgardian, who knew gods, who knew people, who knew unsavory people. Once the chain was started there was no telling what if anything would come of it. Penny's parents made absolutely certain that their daughter knew they had done everything in their power. They knew she'd be disappointed when no reply came, but they couldn't bare the thought of her being disappointed in them anymore than they could bare the thought of losing their beautiful baby girl altogether. Try as they might, there was no way for them to prepare for the worst any more than they could prepare for an invasion of metallic robots in green tunics swarming upon Dayton Children's Hospital, injuring a number of staff members, and literally taking off with Penny in her hospital bed aboard a menacingly angular aircraft that vanished as soon as it was in the air.

***

Doctor Doom stood on a balcony overlooking Doomstadt, hands clasped behind his back, and waited. The Doomcraft had recently docked in the Doom Hanger with his doomed prisoner aboard. In minutes he would face down this unwanted menace. She would serve as an example to all that none crossed Doom, not even children who would otherwise be beneath his notice.

“Penny Anderson,” Doom said at the sound of her arrival. “I trust you have been well cared for on your trip, and that the nanomachines you have been injected with have performed their duty of compensating for your lack of immune system admirably. I wanted to see for myself the insufferable brat whom had mistaken Doom for a lapdog that would come to heel at their whim.”

Doom turned slowly, with his head lowered in a dramatic fashion that he had practiced and perfected to maximize intimidation. He raised his head and glared at the young girl as she lie helpless in her bed. One Doombot attendant stood at each side. Her face was expressionless, no doubt a result of the fire causing her muscles to contract and seize. She breathed heavily through the oxygen face mask the Doombots provided, and her heart rate spiked briefly on the monitor the moment she had made eye contact with Doom. Fear was evident.

Good.

“So... tell me, Ms. Anderson. You clearly have but hours, days at best, remaining in your short, meaningless life. Tell me then why even in the face of death you choose to seek Doom.”

Penny struggled to open her mouth in reply, but only a wheeze escaped her lips. Doom held up a hand and commanded her to remain silent. Already this confrontation had grown wearying. Something would have to be done at once, lest Doom put the girl out of her misery before she had suffered enough. “Doom does not waste his breath on those who have none themselves. Doombot D5-0098, fetch a teleneuro-communicator from the laboratory and see to it that it is fitted to our guest's cranial dimensions. Make haste. Doom does not wait.”

The Doombot bowed quickly and fled to one of the laboratories, leaving only one attendant behind to maintain Penny's vitals. It was more than enough. Even Penny's feeble state was no match for the combined medical wisdom of the best that Western and Eastern medicine had to offer, which had been uploaded into the programming of the Doombots designated as her personal bedside nurses for the duration of this mission. The truth was, Penny was guaranteed to receive more effective treatment in Latveria than she would anywhere in the world. Doom knew this, explained it clearly to Penny so she knew full well that so long as she was in his presence she would live, thereby owing her very life to Doom for as long as he saw fit.

The device that was painlessly affixed to Penny's nearly hairless head appeared as some mixture between a crown and a colander. The nanomachines that had been placed inside of her without her consent while she was in and out of consciousness during transit not only boosted her immune system, but greatly reduced the sensitivity of her exposed nerves. Doom explained that the device was actually a prototype of the interface he himself utilized to call up his holographic control panel, monitor the systems of his castle, and even control his Doombots telepathically should he desire to do so rather than bark orders at them verbally. The model she bore on her scalp had been for that day's purposes programmed into a rudimentary (by Doom's standards of course) communications device that allowed her thoughts to be transcribed into language that Doom was able to read on the heads-up display of his mask. It took a while for the two devices to synchronize, and for Penny to learn how to project her thoughts, but in time everything came together with only a few minor hiccups.

“Penny Anderson, until I declare it unfit for service, your life belongs now to Doom,” Doom reiterated. “You are as Doom's slave. Make no mistake.”

Doom raised a finger and growled. “Not. One. Else your life shall be disposed of forthwith. Do I make myself clear?”

Penny's reflex was to nod in affirmation, but this was at the time an impossibility, so instead she concentrated on forming the word, “Yes” in her mind so that it would register on Doom's display. He tisked in response and waved his hand in disgust. 

“Do not tax Doom with your ignorance, child,” he said. “You will address Doom as your Lord, Master, or combination of the two at all times.”

“Mazd3rr Lurd,” came Penny's response after a brief struggle. There were still some bugs in the system as far as clarity was concerned, which Doom had easily written off as her error rather than his.

“Come. There is work to be done, and your meddling has already upset the time table.”

Doom left the room with a flourish of his regal cape as Penny's Doombot attendants wheeled her close behind. The two robots had demonstrated remarkable strength and coordination in their ability to smoothly manipulate her unwieldy hospital bed up and down staircases, however Doom expressed his displeasure at his new slave's unsightly accommodations and suggested that she adapt to the teleneuro-communicator she had only recently been fitted with more quickly. He had already been developing a more nimble mode of transportation for her in the back of his mind, but it would be useless unless she could control it. Penny tried to project thoughts of understanding and gratitude into the most complex message she had attempted yet in order to show her already developing mastery of Doom's device, but Doom offered no acknowledgment in return and simply lead her and her attendants into his throne room.

“Victory is at hand,” Doom said, situating himself at his throne. “No further interruptions will be tolerated.”

“Yes, Lord Doom,” said the Doombots at Penny's bedside. Penny echoed the sentiment to the best of her ability, and prayed that it didn't come out as “Lard Dumb.” The fact that she wasn't immediately vaporized boded well.

“Very well.” Doom called up the holographic console which spanned about fifteen by twenty-four feet in front of him. Penny's eyes flickered over the screen. The image, while reversed from her perspective behind the projection, consisted of a largely green interface, three video feeds of what appeared to be live footage, and a red circle bearing the stylized image of Doom's mask that could be seen on Latveria's own flag. The live video feeds seemed to be an exterior view of a tall skyscraper in a big city; the interior of a seemingly ordinary, if high-scale, living room; and a room that looked like a space station movie set. If the building itself wasn't familiar, the large orange boulder sitting on the living room couch eating potato chips out of a bowl with a large plastic spoon certainly was. Which suddenly brought context to the man with graying temples in the space station and the little girl aiding him with some bizarre experiment, which probably wasn't a space station at all, but just another room in the very tall building in what was now very obviously New York City. She was looking at live images of the Fantastic Four and their family in their headquarters, the Baxter Building. How was that possible?

“Because Doom planted the cameras,” he snapped at her. “No more senseless questions. I must savor this moment.”

Penny's heart fluttered, leading the Doombots to take note of the monitors and consult her IV drip. There was no need. She'd only been surprised by Doom's response. It seemed to take less concentration than she thought to communicate with him. At least she was getting the hang of things, but she'd have to be more careful if she didn't want to get caught thinking something the “Master” would find insulting.  
Doom laced his fingers together and openly gloated for a few minutes before flicking his wrist at the display and in doing so sending the large red circle sailing towards Penny in a separate window. She hesitated.

“Wut u lik m3 2 d0 mAazder?” Penny asked.

“Doom concerns himself not with such trivialities as pressing buttons,” he said flippantly. “That is the duty of slaves. Press it at once. Do as bidden or be gone.”

Penny looked at the button and back to Doom.

“Cnt m0v3 aaahhrm,” said Penny.

Doom gripped the arm of his throne, which began to crack under the stress. “If you cannot bare the simplest of tasks then I fear I have no further use for you.”

Penny's brow furrowed in frustration. Her forehead had only moved a small fraction of an inch, but that was more than she thought capable of her arm. She looked down at her right hand. The floating window containing the button hovered just out of reach of her fingers that, despite the best efforts of her doctors, had contracted into dark red nubs. Pain filled her eyes. All of her life she had believed herself capable of anything. That was what her parents had taught her, and despite their encouragement to the contrary, each failure was met with grief at the realization that there were simply things she was not yet capable of after all. What was to be learned from a bad report card other than that she sucked? What could be gained by classmates who wouldn't listen to her when she tried to take charge of group projects? What were scars but reminders of incompetence? What need did anyone have of her if she was incapable of fending for herself at all? If she was a loser? A freak? If she couldn't even press a matter-less button floating inches away to save her own miserable life?

Doom stared hard at the girl. How much of her thoughts had he seen? Why hadn't he said anything? No matter. Pressure collected behind Penny's eyes, but she did not cry. She wasn't even sure she could anymore. Instead she focused. She concentrated just as she had earlier to form words. Her joints ached. The pain flared up. He was watching, enjoying her suffering, but she would show him. She would show them all.

The Baxter Building began to quake.

“Reed!” came a woman's shout, no doubt belonging to Susan Storm-Richards, the Invisible Woman. Doom had evidently planted audio surveillance in the Baxter Building as well so he could overhear the ensuing panic. “He's doing it again!”

“No... that... that can't be possible, Darling,” Mister Fantastic said as he watched his sensitive instruments rattle around him. “I installed safeguards when I co-designed this iteration of the Baxter Building so that this precise thing could never happen again, whether it was that odd 'Grabber' technology, Zero Point Energy, thrusters attached to the foundation, or even sorcery. I run routine checks on the safeguards myself. Nobody should be able to get past the sensors and do... _this!_ ”

“You said that the last forty-bajillion times, Egghead, but here we go again,” The Thing, who had accidentally crushed the bowl of snacks in his hand when the building had taken off and was now covered with potato chip and plastic crumbs, growled into his communicator. “Aw nuts. I finally figgered out how'ta open the bag on my own an' now this!”

“Hey, uh, Reed?” came the nervous voice of the Human Torch. Doom's cameras had picked him up waddling through a hallway with a towel wrapped around his waist. “I know I asked for a hurricane chamber at one point after seeing them on YouTube, but turning the shower into one: not what I meant.”

The Invisible Woman came, for a lack of a better word, storming around the corner and nearly bowled over her bare bodied brother. “Put your pants on, Little Brother. We're under attack.”

“Again?” whined the Torch. “It's Sunday isn't it? Didn't God or someone say that this was supposed to be a day of rest?”

“Further proof that, contrary to his claims, Doom isn't God,” Sue snarked. Penny could almost make out Doom's growl of disagreement.

“Doom?” Torch asked quizzically. His eyes widened. “Wait! Are we being shot into the sun again? Again?! What is this, the forty-bajillionth time?”

“Forty-bajillion and one, Matchstick,” The Thing said over the intercom. “Try ta keep count.”

“Not a real number,” Valeria, Reed and Sue's daughter, corrected haughtily over the intercom.

“Pants now. Complaints later,” said an exasperated Invisible Woman.

“Friggin' Doom. I had a date tonight.”

“Johnny! Pants!”

“Mom, are we being shot into space again?” asked Franklin Richards, eldest child of Reed and Sue, as he entered the hall. His mother let out a heavy sigh and tried to stay composed. Penny got the impression that she had to go through this a lot, and as such was the de facto leader of the team.

“Yes, dear,” Sue replied in that forced calm tone mothers have.

“Ugh,” said Franklin, rolling his eyes. “When are we ever not in space? I wanted to get caught up on Netflix's docudrama about Daredevil.”

“Maaaaan, why don't we get docudramas?” asked Johnny.

“Franklin,” said Sue. “Help Uncle Johnny find his dignity.”

“Woah, Mom,” Franklin said, holding up his hands in protest. “I may have big-time reality altering uber-powers, but some things just can't be done.”

“Har har,” the Torch laughed sarcastically. “Sick burn, little man.”

“If we could all be fully clothed and tend to the matter at hand, family?” requested Reed.

Within seconds the Baxter Building had rocketed upwards and into the atmosphere as the Fantastic Four tried to deduce the correct method to disable Doom's latest propulsion devices that he had managed to affix to the building with the “World's Greatest Heroes” being none the wiser. Reed Richards, Mr. Fantastic himself, struggled to suppress his own frustration over Doom's seemingly random attacks on his family. It would take Valeria's insistence that nothing in the universe, let alone Doom, was random and that everything had a pattern for him to center himself enough to uncover a solution, but for the moment at least it appeared that the super genius was completely baffled, and it tickled Doom to no end.

“Oh, Richards,” Doom chuckled. “Will your blundering never cease? I utilize a complex algorithm derived from the anniversary of the first time I launched the Baxter Building into space to determine seemingly arbitrary dates at irregular intervals in which to attack you. Sentimental, I understand, but sentiment has always been your weakness, Richards, not mine. I can read you like a book, yet you will never comprehend Doom's brilliance.”

“U snd B-bilting in2 spac3 b4. Why aga1n??” asked Penny. As amusing as it surely was to see the Baxter Building rocketing off to space, doing it repeatedly seemed more like the elaborate high school prank of an unimaginative jock than the sinister machinations of the world's greatest mind.

“Doom has his reasons,” he said as he closed the holographic display. “Largely to show them that they are never safe from my grasp, even in their own home, and that I can employ the same methods time and time again and yet they will be powerless to stop Doom.”

The truth, Penny soon realized, was far simpler.

***

In the weeks that followed, Doom had managed to brainwash, shrink, torture, imprison in hellish dimensions, steal the powers of, and humiliate just about every super hero and most super villains that the world had to offer. There were times Doom came very close to his proposed goal of global domination, but he had always been set back by either a slight miscalculation, or his own hubris after having decided that his victory had come too easy. Penny watched everything unfold from the comfort of her telepathically controlled hover chair. Doom was gifted, brilliant, utterly without peer or precedent, but he was also several things that Penny, prior to her kidnapping, had no way to surmise.

Doctor Doom was a failure.

She had once admired him: the budding scientist who was injured in an accident after his experimental device was sabotaged by his laboratory partner. The man whom had recovered from injury and disgrace and subjugated his homeland. All of that was an elaborate lie conceived by Doom to make himself feel better about how big of an idiot he was. At least Penny had the wherewithal to admit that the accident that nearly ended her life was her own stupid fault. Not Doom though. He had to blame Dr. Richards for his scarring, which wasn't even caused by the explosion of the machine the two of them had built together in college. It was self-inflicted because he had been too impatient to wait for his newly forged armor to cool. All of his grand acts of vengeance against the Fantastic Four were a series of ill-conceived but elaborate pranks that he pulled to try to make himself look cool. He was a bully, and even worse: he wasn't all that good at it.

Heck, Doom had tried to recruit Spider-Man as a soldier back when Penny was a baby because a New York tabloid publisher had called him a menace on TV. This was a little more than two weeks after Spider-Man had tried to join the Fantastic Four as a legitimate super hero. Doom once tried get out of paying Luke Cage the $200 he owed him for breaking some robots. Forcing his subjects to eat the deserts he turns down. Destroying priceless works of art. That fiasco with the Sea Horn. The list went on.

In truth, Doom's motivations for anything and everything he did were all the same: he was a colossal jerk. Sure, the people of Latveria thrived under his iron-fisted reign, and maybe his douchiness had led to the purification of his mother's dammed soul, but aside from that what had Doom ever really accomplished with his cunning and power? Certainly far less than Penny would with hers.

Penny had learned all she needed to through the psychic link she was able to establish with her mentor through her reconfigured and re-purposed teleneuro-communicator, and she was due to return home at long last. Penny sat with her fingers laced together as she oversaw her enslaved Doombots load the vessel she had procured in Doom's hanger with the essential tools and resources she needed for her plans. She pitied that poor fool, Victor. So much squandered potential. He really had done so much for her. Given her the right push. Access to the right technology. Doom's nanomachines had not only restored her body, but improved it to a point where her athletic prowess almost matched her superior intellect. She'd even been able to build a new prosthetic leg in his workshop. Perhaps once she had erased all memory of her existence from Doom's mind she would leave him with one final thought: A desire to improve upon his mistakes and seek any means to better himself, no matter how unthinkable. Perhaps, one day, Doom really would be as a god, but only if Penny allowed him to be.

For all was as Penny willed it.


End file.
